Heart On My Sleeve
by cloverblob
Summary: When Quinn comes to take Beth back months after she gave her up for adoption, Shelby may refuse comfort, but, hell, she needs it. Rachel/Shelby relationship.


**Author's Note: **This may be my angstiest piece yet. And that's saying quite a bit... This is a one-shot. So story alerts won't get you anywhere, but reviews will get you a cookie, from me. Although, I'm bad at baking, just a warning. I feel like each successive story is more dark than the other. Oh welp, my next one will probably be crazy dark and M rated. I have no limits.

**HEART ON MY SLEEVE**

_She may be transparent, she's got no defences to speak of_

_But she will stand here before you with no pride or prejudice_

_Just steadfast and certain that she'll land on her own two feet_

It doesn't even make sense. There must be rules about this, _against this_. Shelby rustles through the papers on her desk. It has never been messier than it is now. The panic on her face is obvious, she swallows deeply as she picks up another piece of paper, rubbing her eyes with her forefingers then reading over the sheet. She's read this three times already, she realizes, as her eyes reach the second paragraph.

It's worthless, just a confirmation that she's Beth's legal parent. Yes, her. _She's_ her parent. Then why was a lawyer allowed to call her and two hours later have Quinn and Judy Fabray at her door expecting her to just hand over her child? That's... cruelty. Cruelty beyond anything she could ever think of.

Five months. Beth had just turned five months. Shelby had been raising her for five months. Five months to fall in love with her baby. It doesn't make sense. She raises another piece of paper, glancing over it and then hastily throwing it away and picking up another. She repeats this process time and time again, trying to find some words, some document that tells her this isn't really happening. Frustration builds up with each worthless piece of garbage and she runs her arm across the desk violently, her pictures, her phone, her clock, everything, crashing to the floor and she buries her face into her hands and lets out a pained sob.

She sits there for a few moments, not really able to think, she's just breathing, heavily, collecting her sobs and refusing to let tears fall. She's exhausted. She hasn't slept in two days, trying to figure out what to do. She's called people, so many lawyers, her parents and they all gave her the same damn excuse; she knew the rules when she adopted her. And she did, she does, but she never thought it could happen.

In the state of Ohio, much like most of the United States of America, for a full year after adoption, biological parents had the right to reclaim their child. And that was ludicrous bullshit. 'Reclaiming a child', like they were property. Beth was her _daughter_. She was Shelby's solution to everything that she was missing. And now, that hole she was there to fill, was ripping back open.

Shelby stumbles her way into her kitchen, looking through the cupboards, slamming them closed so hard that they just bounce back open. And none of them have what she's looking for. So instead, she grabs her keys off the counter and makes her way to the garage, grabbing a coat along the way. She drives through the streets of Akron, just driving, unable to stand being in that house alone, but the car's almost worse somehow. Sitting there, able to see people through the windows and yet, receiving nothing in return. So she keeps driving and winds up outside a little pub at the corner of some town between here and nowhere. That was Ohio for you.

She makes her way in, tosses some money on the counter and asks for the full bottle of scotch. Her drink of choice. It's classy enough to suit her tastes, always the sophisticated woman she was. With her shot glass and the bottle corked open, she pours it in, raises the glass and downs it. One shot down, an innumerable number to go. Once she gets past the fifth shot, she won't really be able to keep count anyway.

Somewhere along the way, through her thoughts and agonizing internalized screams, the bottle is emptied as she can no longer see straight. Which is fine for her, everything has already become numb, except for her face which is warm with intoxication. Shelby asks for another bottle, groggily, slurred slightly, but she's always been good at enunciating; it's an acting thing. Her request though, is denied even as she scrummages through her purse, pulling out her belongings and three fifties for one sole bottle of scotch.

"Sorry, ma'am," the bartender tells her. She hates being called ma'am. "I'm cutting you off." He urges her to put the money back into her wallet and the wallet back into her purse.

She doesn't. Instead, she scowls. She's not getting what she wants, and that's simply not okay. She's been denied enough this past week and if she's going to give up this easily, well, it's simply not in her to do so. "Just give me the fucking drink," she says, throwing the money towards the bar, only to politely be handed the green bills back. "Just one more glass," she asserts. He turns his attention to another patron, and she grunts, looking through her bag for her keys. She finds them, only to subsequently drop them and stumble on her way to bend down and pick them up off the cold floor.

As her finger reaches the edge of an NYC key chain, another hand reaches out and pulls them from her. She looks up, a slight squint of her eyes as the motion of rising quickly makes her want to fall over. Her arm reaches for the support of the bar, and she's never been less debonair than she is right now. The bartender stashes her keys behind the bottle of scotch she's been denied.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now?"

"Call someone. Or if you remember where you live, get a cab."

Shelby's glare is completely unamused. She doesn't have anyone to call. Her first thought would have gone to Jesse but he left Ohio three months ago. So she sits back on the bar stool and blandly pulls out her phone. She scrolls through her contacts, and there's a lot of them, but they're not friends, they're business associates, her gardener, the daycare (delete on sight). Her finger runs down the screen, coming up empty until she spots Rachel.

There's a moment's hesitation before she pushes the little green talk button and holds it up to her ear, missing the first time, and whacking the earpiece against the side of her head instead. She listens to the ringing a few times, and is about to hang up when there's a small click.

"I don't know who you think you are, but I hope you're well aware it is two o'clock in the morning and as a performer, I needed to be perfectly well-rested at all times. Who is this?"

Shelby doesn't answer, she's not even sure she can process the very long sentence her daughter just spouted. She just talks _so_ fast.

"Hello?" Rachel calls out, about to grow angry at the intrusion of a prank call at this time.

"Hi, umm, it's me."

On the other end, Rachel blinks. 'It's me' helps describe absolutely nothing, and the voice sounds sick; that much more difficult to pinpoint. "Who is 'me'?" she asks plainly.

"Shelby," she states and her own name almost sounds foreign to her. "I need help," she adds on, a blast of shame would have flown through her veins had she been sober. Shelby Corcoran didn't ask for help.

"Are you hurt?" Rachel asks warily, a hint of panic in her voice that goes completely unnoticed by her mother.

"I'm kind of wasted," she replies, and there's almost a breath of relief from the young girl. "I don't know how to get home." Shelby sounds almost childish, and Rachel's still not quite positive if she's being pranked or not. Even though she doesn't know her very well, this attitude certainly isn't like her mother.

"Okay, I'll come get you. Where are you?"

"I don't know," she whines, leaning her head down upon the bar, her cheekbone hurting from the pressure upon the wood but not feeling strengthened enough to care. She holds the phone out in front of her, "Where am I?" The bartender takes the phone from her hand and starts a conversation with the girl on the other end, offering excellent, clear directions. He's done this many time before.

He hangs up the phone and places it back in Shelby's hand, and she puts a miniscule grip on it. "Is she coming?" she asks, and he nods with a halfhearted smile. She doesn't return it, instead, pulling herself up to sit forward with a slouch of her shoulders. She waits idly, playing around with her phone until it falls from her grip and she's much too uninterested to bother picking it back up.

So she takes to ripping apart a napkin piece by piece, the white strands sprawled across the bar before her. She continues this and just as she pulls a third napkin from the metal container, she feels a hand on her arm.

"Hi, mom."

Shelby glances as her daughter, but doesn't reply. She wants to tell her she's not her mom and that they've been over this already, but by some miracle is able to hold her tongue.

"Do you want to go home now?"

"No, I want another drink. Tell him to get me another," she says, it almost sounds like an order and Rachel frowns.

"She's a drop away from alcohol poisoning, take her home," he replies before either of the women can say something. And somehow, her frown becomes more intense and there's worry upon her face.

Lifting her mother by the arm, Rachel helps her away from the bar, picking up her phone and slowly taking her towards the parking lot. "We can come back for your car tomorrow," she tells her, sounding rather patronizing, or at least that was how Shelby took it to be.

"I can come back on my own," she slurs, as the passenger side door is opened for her and she steps in, almost hitting her head as she does so. Rachel throws her purse into her lap carelessly; there's clearly some frustration towards her mother in the movement, and walks around the other side.

"This is my dad's Altima, so don't throw up in it, okay?"

Shelby scoffs, "I'm not going to throw up." The car is put into ignition and Rachel drives them back towards Akron, silent for most of the ride. Shelby doesn't feel like talking, she feels nauseous but she just made a point of not vomiting and hell if she was going to complain after that.

"Why were you out here? Where's Beth? I can't believe you got drunk with a baby," Rachel reprimands, breaking the silence in the air. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence as would be expected between the estranged duo, but neither of them were particularly quiet people. Shelby, of course, doesn't answer. For two reasons; one being she's scared of opening her mouth and being sick, the other being that she doesn't want to explain what happened.

"Are we there yet?" she asks instead, after waiting a few moments.

"I think so," is the reply, and within minutes they pull up to Shelby's house. Shelby attempts to open the door a few times, before Rachel does it for her and she almost falls out towards the gravel. She doesn't though, and manages to make her way up to the front porch.

The door is unlocked, she remembers, opening it without the need of her confiscated keys. The door swings open and she stops dead.

"What's wrong? Go in," Rachel tells her, placing a hand on her shoulder. Shelby shakes her head and refuses to enter. For a moment, Rachel seems ready to force her mother inside, but she sighs and with patience she asks, "Are you okay?" Another shake of the older woman's head, and she grows frustrated. "What's wrong?" she asks again, not displaying the worry in her tone or expression. Shelby doesn't bother to even remotely respond to that question. Giving up, Rachel squeezes into the doorway past Shelby and pulls her in by the arm. Stumbling and unable to put up much of a fight, she follows in after her daughter. Rachel helps her pull off her coat, place her shoes in the allotted place at the door and holds onto her as they head to the living room.

With her coat hung up, Shelby pulls away from Rachel, taking her first step into the sitting room and stopping at the door. Rachel watches, not sure what is going on in her mother's mind. She continues walking now, after that moment's hesitation, and runs her hand across the end table surface. There are picture frames on it, but from her spot in the hall, the younger girl can't see what or who they display. For an instant, the only expression on Shelby's face is solemnity.

She picks up a single frame, and her face shifts to a cocktail of displayed emotion. She's never seemed so vulnerable. Rachel takes a step in, slowly so as not to alarm her. She begins to reach a hand out to her stunned parent, but before she can touch her, Shelby flings the picture at the wall. The glass shatters and the frame splits into two, ragged and uneven pieces. Rachel looks shaken, her big, brown eyes impossibly wider. "What are you doing?" she asks, still trying to wipe away the slight twinge of fear from her face. "Mom, what's wrong?"

Shelby doesn't answer. Her breathing has become more intense, as though deep breaths stopped tears. Obviously, she doesn't want to talk; because as usual, talking through feelings is a load of crap and eternally annoying. There's no more anguish, just anger now. So she picks up the entire end table, and the remaining pictures, a notebook and telephone all fall to the floor at her feet. She wildly throws it across the room, screaming a deep, guttural cry; the table flying directly into a bookcase filled with the classics, sheet music and keepsakes that all come cascading off. She seems unable to catch her breath now, heaving a set of gasping sobs. And for all the pain in her eyes, she can't bring herself to cry.

"Mom!" At this call, Shelby looks up and catches her daughter's eye. She looks scared and guilt racks at her. Still, instead of facing her, Shelby turns around, and heads through the door of the adjoining kitchen. There's no hesitation as Rachel follows suit, moving at a faster pace to get in front of her. She reaches out her hand again to pull her around by the arm, "Mom," she says, as Shelby flicks her hand away. "Shelby!" she tries again, placing a grip on her mother's forearm and forcing her around whether she wants to or not.

Rachel grabs hold of both of Shelby's arms now, but the older woman won't look her in the eye; staring at the ground instead. She puts a hand to her mother's chin and lifts her head to look up, to meet eyes, Shelby has water streaming down her face, outlining the form of her cheekbones.

"What happened?" she asks, trying once again. Rachel Berry is nothing if not persistent. And again, Shelby doesn't answer. She keeps her eyes shallowly trained on her daughter's and suddenly, loses all strength in her knees, collapsing into Rachel's arms and she slowly lowers them both to the ground, unable to take her weight. Her face is buried into her collarbone and there's no decipherable thought in her head except for the fact that she is crying into her daughter's arms like some overgrown child. Rachel gently rubs her shoulder, "It's okay," she assures softly. "Did something happen to the baby?" This question elicits a nod that wouldn't be noticeable if she were not directly touching her.

A few moments of silence fall between them again, no sound but the decreasing hiccoughs coming from the sorrow-filled woman. "They took her," she says finally, her voice is hoarse. "They just came and took her. Like she's some kind of toy; like I've done something wrong. They took my baby girl."

There's a pang of jealousy that runs through the teenager. She knows it's not time for that, but she can't help her first instinct. _She_ was her baby girl. Both women, though they don't know it of the other, share egocentric traits. And Shelby wouldn't blame her for thinking such a thing. "I'm sorry," Rachel says, not able to come up with a viable sentence of comfort.

There are mostly sniffles coming from Shelby now. Her chest still feels restricted, but the tears have stopped. She still can't let herself go enough, after all the alcohol and vulnerability, it's just not who she is. "Maybe I'll just steal her and run away to Canada," she comments, and Rachel isn't sure if she's serious or not. The thought that she might be scares her a little. But she doesn't say anything, just keeps holding her regardless of the envy she feels toward a five month old baby. "It hurts so bad," her mother says through clenched teeth. "I don't understand."

"This is the reason you don't let people in," Rachel says, attempting to be wise. "This is what you've always been scared of."

"I'm not scared of anything," she denies.

"Yes, you are," Rachel tells her forcefully; frustratedly. "It's why you tried to make me believe you don't love me."

"I never said that-"

"You tried to make yourself believe it," Rachel interrupts, not going to stand for her lame excuses. "You're a coward, and I'm a casualty of your fear. And you opened yourself up for Beth and now you're going to use this as an excuse to lock yourself back up in a tiny, little hole of loneliness."

Shelby doesn't reply and with her head still against Rachel's chest, she can't see her mother's face harden exponentially. The woman lets out a breath and opens her mouth to retort, but doesn't have a good argument. Because as much as she can deny it, she's right. So she cops out, and takes the route of utter immaturity. "You know, when I called you, this isn't the kind of help I wanted. So you can go now, thank you for the drive," she tells her, and pushes her daughter away, not looking her in the eye. She pushes herself away, not quite sure she's able to lift herself up off the carpeted floor, and resorts to leaning against the door frame behind her.

Rachel doesn't move from her spot.

"I said you can go now," Shelby tells her again, still looking down at the floor.

"We both know I'm not going anywhere," Rachel says sternly, and in open defiance, she gets up and sits back down against the wall beside her. "You need somebody."

At that comment, Shelby's heart skips a beat; a fluctuation of emotion in her chest. "I've never needed anyone," she says haughtily. Both of them know that's a lie. She's needed someone many times before, but no one ever came. And Shelby Corcoran doesn't complain or seek pity.

"That's ridiculous," Rachel says, always the know-it-all tone. "I don't know what happened to you, or who hurt you in the past, but you need someone." Shelby still won't look at her, and Rachel, though not particularly well-versed in deciphering emotions, figures it's due to some kind of shame. She puts a hand on her mother's leg, a gesture of comfort but she can already tell she probably won't take it that way.

Surprisingly, Shelby doesn't shrug her hand away like she expected. Perhaps she just doesn't have the energy, Rachel thinks; it seems most likely. But she's proved wrong as Shelby's slightly larger hand envelops hers and puts a grip on it. She pulls her hand up, and Rachel's attention turns back to her mother's face. Shelby lifts her hand to her mouth and plants a small kiss, a touch of her lips, to the back of it.

Maybe she is really drunk, maybe not so much. To Rachel, it's irrelevant; it's the first true amount of affection she's ever received from the woman and she can't stop the shimmer of a smile. Shelby leans her head down on her daughter's shoulder, fatigued beyond belief. She doesn't have it in her to do anything but let her eyes drip closed and flutter to sleep.

Rachel gently lifts her mother's head and lowers it to her lap. Shelby probably won't remember this in the morning, and maybe no progress will have been made; but Rachel, though she hadn't known, needed the comfort of her mother's presence too.

**Author's Note: **So, there! I don't know, I might make a sequel to this plot line, maybe Shell based? Anyways, still, please please please review!


End file.
